She and He
by CreepingMuse
Summary: What's in a name?
1. She and He

Not for the first time, he attempted to imagine her as she would have looked had she been born into his world. It was easier to envision here, alone in the cabin. He did not always eschew the electric lighting system, but he preferred to think and read in the soft glow of candles. It made the world seem familiar and unreal, and allowed his mind to wander.

It was highly probable she would have been a slave, of course, filthy and uneducated. At best, she would have been a free woman, perhaps one who'd scratched out some semblance of a life, as Mr. Bernard had, but likely just as poor and just as desperate as those in chains. But he refused to imagine her like that. It was impossible to envision her in a state of servitude, the woman who stood as if she were taller than he, who could demand silence with a purse of her lips.

First, he tried to imagine her in the simple clothes of the Quakers he had grown to love. He strained to picture her hair drawn up under a bonnet, her body cloaked by long skirts. Somehow, though, it was impossible for him to see her with a distaff in her hand instead of a firearm or set of automobile keys. He shook the shadowy image away.

This time, his mind's eye attempted to enrobe her in the clothing he had known in England as a young man, but he laughed aloud before he could conjure a vision of her in such an impractical quantity of silk, with quite so many seed pearls.

No, she belonged in her "pants" (how scandalized he was when he heard her refer to the garment as such!) and her short coat, just he belonged in his breeches and great coat, no matter how she teased him for it. She was a woman of her time, as he was a man of his. As evidenced by the fact he knew not what to call her in his head. For now,the only name he could offer was were pronouns—"she" and "her."

Perhaps Katrina should have been the only _she_ in his world, and his wife was certainly foremost in his heart. But with Katrina, nomenclature was simple: she was "miss" until she became his wife, at which point she was Katrina in private and Mrs. Crane in public. The rules were exceedingly clear on that front—though, had he used his father's title, things would have become murkier. But no, his wife was Katrina, and so he held her in his head and his heart. But with his friend, things were clear as mud, as she was so fond of saying.

At first, lieutenant seemed appropriate. She held a man's position, dressed in a man's clothes, and was involved with a paramilitary organization. Thus, she was defined by her profession instead of her familial relationships. And that had been good. Simple. Perfectly proper.

It was only when he began to see her as an entire person that the situation clouded. In time, he came to understand her as a person, one who loved baseball, no matter how deathly dull it was, and who took her coffee with an alarming quantity of sugar. He had seen some of her darkest moments, when she forced herself to be brave and to face her own shame. He had seen her do the right thing, even though it shook her to the very foundations of her soul. And in turn, she had seen him lost, frightened, afraid in so many ways. And she had stayed by his side, though she was just as terrified as he.

When you knew someone so deeply, and when they came to know you with the same intensity, it was impossible to maintain the pretense that their relationship was purely professional. She became his friend—though the word seemed wholly inadequate- and as such, she was entitled to more intimate forms of address.

That had all been satisfactory until he'd gone and complicated things. No one to blame but himself, really, and his inability to see another way. When he thought he was going to die, when he thought he _must _die in order to preserve this wonderful, horrible world he'd awoken in, he called her Abbie. Not Abigail, not even _Miss _Abbie. Abbie, as though they were wed.

Or, he hastened to remind himself, as if they were siblings. That would have been entirely proper as well. Some part of him protested that the use of her Christian name was an adaptation to the twenty-first century and its startling lack of formality. But he had never bothered trying to fit into that world before; why would he start on the brink of death?

And despite this world's lack of ceremony and titles, Abbie had seen the significance of the moment, and it had meant something to her. Just as, against all odds, _he_ meant something to her.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine once more. This time, he tried to see their roles reversed, to imagine that an oddly attired, bizarrely spoken woman had appeared in his village, raving nonsense about demons and traveling through time and all the rest of it. Would he have been so kind to her as she had been to him? Or would he have taken her to the nearest hospital for disturbed minds?

While he would hope he would have been as stalwart as she, he wasn't at all sure. The incident with Mr. Bernard—Cicero, alas! Another naming quandary—had taught Ichabod that while he tried to do the morally upstanding thing, it sometimes took him a bit to see exactly what that was.

Church bells boomed beside him and he started out of his seat as he always did. "I thought the ring tone would remind you of home," she had mocked gently as she handed him the plastic device not much larger than a snuff box. He had fought the communication method-"If you wish to speak to me, simply come and speak to me. The distance is trifling with your automobile"-but she had insisted that sometimes speed was of the essence. Then she'd made some crack about Paul Revere and he'd been too exhausted to explain that Revere had nearly bungled the entire mission. He just accepted the telephone—the linguist in him appreciated the name, at the least—and promptly ignored it whenever possible.

But now he took it in his hand, gazing at the glowing letters. "Call from...Abbie," it read. She'd put her identifying information into it, had named herself. He laid the phone on the table, waiting for the bells to fall silent.

It was easy to become distracted with these toys and this new life and with Lieutenant Miss Abigail "Abbie" Mills. It was easy to forget that somewhere, Katrina was suffering in a misty purgatory, unable to move on, unable to render aid except through visions and dreams when they were at the very precipice of death. It was easy to think of only his new life here, with her, and to forget Katrina's mischievous smile and kind eyes and bold, brave heart.

After all, had it not been for Katrina, he would be dead right now. Dead two hundred years ago, and dead now, a Mason martyr, another body for the lieutenant to bury beside her beloved sheriff, if his brothers had even allowed her to claim his corpse. But together, the two _hers _in his life had saved him, in ways that were the same and so very, very different.

Fate had not merely bound together two witnesses; they were a trinity of believers. Whether any of them liked it or not, they would not escape each other.

The telephone squawked, indicating a message of some sort. But Ichabod merely watched as wax dripped its way down the candle beside him, dissolving into a soft white pool.


	2. The F Word

Did he have to talk so damn much? Most of the time, he could use one normal word—words like "yes," or "no." Instead, she got shit like, "my ears shall remain eternally open to your admonition," or, "under no circumstances shall I emerge from this cell wearing this sackcloth!"

"They're called 'jeans,' Crane," she called over the dressing room wall.

He stuck his head out from the curtain. "Are you aware there is a _hole _in the...in the nether-regions of this garment? Just below the button! Is there meant to be some sort of codpiece-"

"It's a zipper," she interrupted, voice sharp. "Take the metal tab at the bottom and pull it up. And make sure you tuck your bits in." The last thing she needed was a trip to the emergency room with a lacerated penis.

"My _bits,_" he muttered incredulously.

She took a few deep breaths, trying to get back into a good head space. Yeah, this was confusing and overwhelming for him. She got that and did her best to sympathize. But right now, she needed him to get some clothes that didn't smell like old cave no matter how many times she washed them. Then she needed to get him home and try to deal with some of her own shit. She was behind on her paperwork, behind on paying her bills, and she didn't even want to think about the dishes overflowing from her sink. They probably smelled like old cave now, too.

Spending time with Crane was fun; he saw the world so differently—not just because of the whole Rip van Winkle thing, but because he was the smartest guy she'd ever met. Plus, since he came around, she never knew when she might be attacked by demons instead of meth heads, which definitely added some spice to the workday.

But it was also exhausting, like babysitting some genius toddler. He could speak languages she'd never heard of, but literally could not tie his own shoes. He wanted explanations for everything, and sometimes, she just didn't know them, didn't care about them, or flat out didn't have time to discuss the history of the flush toilet.

Crane threw the curtain back with a theatrical flourish. Seeing him in jeans was definitely weird— she'd gotten used to the dirty pirate look—but she was most concerned about fit. They were long enough. Good, she'd been worried. Looked okay in the crotch. "Turn around," she ordered.

"How on earth do you tolerate wearing this apparel day in, day out? They chafe far worse than leather trousers," he groused, even as he followed her order.

"Not even gonna ask why you were wearing leather pants." He hadn't changed into any of the t-shirts she'd picked out for him, so she twitched the hem of his long shirt up so she could see the fit from behind. He lightly smacked her hand away, but not before she saw what she needed to see. Normally she would have admired the view, but she was just too tired. "Perfect. I'm gonna grab a couple pairs of these and the same size in some Chinos. You can't wear those outta here, so get back into your pantaloons."

"These are clearly trousers; pantaloons have a much wider-"

"Whatever." She headed to the table of Levi's. When she got back, she had to tear him away from questioning a really confused teenaged employee about how the pants were made. They eventually made it through checkout and back to her car. She reached for the police scanner; she'd rather listen to the persistent buzz and bark of the machine than deal with another one of Crane's word avalanches. But he'd at least figured out the "on" button, and stopped her hand before she could make it there.

"Miss-" he cut the word off, shook his head, then continued. "Have I offended or displeased you in some way? You seem unhappy."

"How come you don't say my name anymore?" she shot right back. Nope. The only thing worse than Crane talking was Crane making _her_ talk. And he was damn good at getting her to admit things she hadn't even realized. "Ever since the whole poison thing, you keep stopping yourself from calling me anything. Not even 'leftenant_.' _It's getting weird."

He looked down, almost...embarrassed? Then he turned the scanner on. Familiar voices calling familiar codes filled the car, and she relaxed into her seat. She had about five minutes of peace before he switched the scanner off. "I'm having some difficulty with your present-day nomenclature," he said.

"English, Crane."

"I don't know what to call you."

"Called me Abbie the other day. That worked fine." She cheated a glance at him, but he stared straight ahead, and his long nose and downcast eyes didn't give her any clues.

"Yes, but I thought I was going to die. Those are fairly extenuating circumstances," he said. He sat up straighter, tugging at the seat belt she always had to remind him to wear. "One should not call a lady by her given name."

"Why not?" In the past few weeks, she'd found herself wishing she'd paid more attention during history class. History was a big damn deal in Sleepy Hollow, so she and Jenny and done their best to ignore it.

"In direct address, it's reserved for family," he said softly.

The fuckin' "f" word. In her family, usually things were better when they didn't directly address each other at all. So she could get how the closeness first names apparently implied could wig someone out, even though... "You know if it came down to having you or Jenny at my back, I'd pick you every time. Family's just luck of the draw." She left out all the parts about how she couldn't trust Jenny because _she'd _never trusted her sister in the first place. Damn, she was ready for those beers.

"That means a great deal to me," he said. He mercifully left off the "though you really should be nicer to your sister" part, for once.

They drove the rest of the way without saying much—she reminded him he needed to answer his cell phone when she called; he mentioned the beauty of the autumn leaves. But for the moment, nothing else needed to be said. As irritating as he was, she couldn't imagine not having him around anymore. She didn't have a clue how she would have survived losing Corbin without him. Talk about family-he'd been her father and her friend and her mentor. He'd been everything but a boyfriend. Losing him had been the worst thing that had ever happened to her, hands down. She couldn't help but wonder if Crane was her consolation prize, if somewhere up there Corbin wasn't kicked back in a chair, smiling knowingly down at them. "I got to the end of what I could do for you an' Jenny," the old sheriff would say. "Crane'll take it from here."

God, she missed him.

Abbie pulled up in front of the cabin just as the sun crumpled beneath the horizon. "You good? _We _good?"

A slow smile tugged first one, then the other side of his lips upward. "We are good." He gathered his bags from the backseat, holding them from the tips of his fingers like they were scorpions. "Well, good night, then."

He started to shut the door, but she leaned across the passenger seat. "Why don't you just call me 'Mills'? Drop the 'miss' thing, makes me feel like a kindergarten teacher. You don't mind when I call you Crane, right?"

"Mills." He tasted the word, as if for the first time. "Mills. I'm not sure. I shall have to give the matter further consideration."

She huffed out a single breath of laughter. "You do that."

Her apartment was silent, and the beer just didn't sound good anymore. She curled up on the couch with her reports and the soothing chatter of the police scanner.


	3. A Starving Man

_Thanks for making me feel so welcome in the Sleepy Hollow fandom. This takes place during 1x07, while researching the mysterious book. A few ideas have been inspired by my dear friend JWAB's excellent fic, "Conversations with Photographs." Definitely go read that._

* * *

There were innumerable cruel ironies about the situation in which he found himself, but Ichabod had unquestionably identified the worst of them all. More than anything, he yearned to return home, yet he already was present in the town in which he had lived and where he and Katrina had created a happy household, had spoken of having children one day, had dreamed of a life together. He was longing not for a place, but for a time. Home was, quite literally, extinct.

Ichabod wanted to sleep on a proper feather tick instead of a noisy mattress filled with metal. He wanted to walk freely throughout the village on cow paths and muddy streets, wanted to nod at his neighbors and ask after their health, rather than gliding through town in an automobile, silent and anonymous.

He wanted to live in a world where he understood the rules. He wanted to be treated like a man—like a professor of history at the finest university in the world—rather than an idiot school child who should be rewarded for not drooling on his own shirt.

He did not, under any circumstances, wish to learn about this "Internet" or this "computing machine." Yet here he was.

"Think of it like the Pony Express," Mills said, her fingers clattering across an oddly arranged grouping of letters and numbers.

"A pony is, rather by definition, not express. Have you seen their short legs?" he wiggled his fingers in the air. "Not unlike you, in that respect."

"Cute. Okay." Her eyes never fell upon him, remaining trained upon the machine. "Let me figure out something you'll understand-"

"Simple etymology gives me an inkling," he interrupted. "The term is 'Internet,' yes? Inter, from the Latin for 'between.' Net, is this some sort of...trap? It traps information between two locations?"

She finally turned away from the machine, her face glowing a sickly green in its light. "You know, not a terrible description."

"You needn't be so surprised I know the most basic Latinate prefixes," he huffed.

"They did not cover Latin at Sleepy Hollow High School or the police academy," she said with a ghost of a smile. "Know a little Spanish, though."

"Which, of course, derives from Latin. You likely know more than you think. But what sort of institute—especially one known as a 'high' school—does not instruct in Latin?" To think that she had never read Virgil in the original made him profoundly sad.

"Well, they did teach me to use a computer." He wrinkled his nose. "Don't you make that face at me. All you need to know for right now is that we've got copies of the book." She turned the computer toward him, and he felt a rush of relief as he saw the familiar, beautiful handwriting, so unlike the regimented and perfect type so often utilized now. He wanted to fall upon the words and feast like a starving man.

For hours, they toiled, alternating between the computing contraption and the paper copies he'd so prudently acquired via the ingenious portable printing press. She took phone calls from her captain; he strained his eyes and his mind, attempting to derive some meaning from the code. But without the password, it was gibberish. He flung a stack of papers in the air in disgust, startling his partner who had been leafing through an old volume.

"O-kay." She snapped the book shut. "I think it's time for a dinner break."

"We haven't the time. The horseman rides again, and I will not have more blood on my hands." Perhaps the word was a name—Revere, for the old narcissist. Prescott? He reached for the fallen papers.

"You starving yourself isn't going to help. You need brain food. C'mon."

Crane had to admit there was a certain logic to her words, so he allowed himself to be led from their headquarters. That seemed to be all he did these days—allow himself to be led about by the nose.

He expected her to lead him to her vehicle, but she stopped short. "If you could eat anything in the world right now, what would it be?"

"Katrina's roast supper," he said without a moment's hesitation. He had dreamed of it; not just of the tender beef, thick gravy and crackling potatoes, but of the times he'd shared the meal with his wife. It was always a happy occasion when there was roast—celebrating their first night together as man and wife; the meal she prepared for him when he returned home on leave—and he wanted to be back there with her so badly, he could taste it.

"Roast. That like pot roast?" she asked, a smile curving up around her lips.

"I believe it is prepared in a pot of some sort, yes," he said, not allowing hope to well inside him.

She grinned. "I was worried you were gonna say something weird like squirrel, but we can do that. We can definitely do that."

They walked through the cold night air to a brightly lit tavern. This late in the evening, few were in attendance, but Mills was clearly a regular patron at the establishment. "Hey Millie. You guys got any pot roast left?"

Millie, a portly and weary-looking woman in an apron, looked up at Ichabod, a somewhat dumbstruck look on her face. "He's new."

"Yup. Name's Crane, he's a consultant. The pot roast?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Two, please. To go. And mashed potatoes. Something green'd be nice, too."

Millie returned in due course with two squeaky white boxes which smelled enticingly of beef and starch. The aroma was nearly painful, so similar and yet so different was it from that which he recalled. It took him several moments to realize Mills was repeating his name.

"What do you want to drink? Coffee?"

In an instant, his reverie was gone, and he turned sharp eyes toward Millie. "Do you charge for your water, or do you serve your fellow man by offering it as his God-given right?"

By now, Millie bore an expression he knew all too well: she thought him mad. He took perverse pleasure in that.

"Water's free, hon."

Crane beamed triumphantly at Mills. "Finally, a woman who understands hospitality. A mug of water, if you please." He cast another sidelong glance at his partner. She was smiling. "_To go,_" he added.

Mills reached for the leather envelope she carried her money in, but he stopped her and produced the huge pile of currency—he still couldn't believe that prig Hamilton was portrayed on the ten dollar note—Captain Irving had given him for expenses.

"Look at you," she said as they stepped into the night, him slurping on his tariff-free water. "Handling money, using computers. Soon you won't need me anymore."

He merely snorted by way of response.

They ate together in their lair. What precisely the "pot roast" tasted of, Ichabod hadn't the slightest idea. To his palate, it simply was home. He ate every bite and restrained himself from licking the odd container clean. Then he stole bites from Mills' plate, to her mock outrage, as they leaned their heads together, poring over the blasted codes.

"It's not Katrina's, but was it good enough?" Abbie asked.

He licked a slick of gravy from the plastic fork with too many prongs. "Good enough, indeed."


	4. No Promises

"Am I simply to take the word of this...Wiki-pedia? How do I know this source is even remotely reliable, considering how little that 'educator' knew about Revere?" Crane sniffed, squinting down at her phone.

"Not believing Wikipedia is probably a good call," Abbie said. She wasn't quite sure what this battle ax had been doing in their Bat Cave, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. She knocked down tree branch after tree branch with it. "But you can look somewhere else—even in a _book_. They'll all tell you the same thing about your buddy."

Crane continued to blab on about what a great guy old TJ had been, and she fell into a steady working rhythm. She'd realized that if she didn't listen to _every _word Crane said, it was easier to understand what he meant and keep up with the constant conversation. She just let it wash over her like background music, trying to chop in time.

"_Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?_" her cell phone belted. Luke. He'd set his own ring tone, because of course he had. Guess Crane thought it was about as funny as she did, because he dropped the phone into a pile of leaves with a squawk.

"This device not only can search every piece of information ever published and communicate over vast distances, it _sings_?" Crane yelled, more loudly than he needed to, over the music.

Abbie thunked the ax into the tree trunk and scooped her phone up. She dismissed the call; no time for Luke now. Possibly not ever. She shoved it into her pocket, taking the break to drink some water from a bottle, just because it'd bug him. "You don't have to do that around me, Crane."

"I do many things, though perhaps not as many as your smartphone can," he said with a sneer. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Act dumb, when we both know you're not." She offered him the water; he literally stuck his nose in the air.

"My sincerest and most abject apologies if my discomfiture is an irritant." He stalked over to where she'd left the ax and removed it from the trunk, one-handed and effortlessly.

"You've got every right to be uncomfortable—that's what discomfiture is, right?" He inclined his head. "But c'mon, you know what a straw is. And you know how cell phones work—I showed you, plus you have a perfect memory. Even if you didn't, you can read 'swipe to answer call.'" She gathered a pile of branches, all taller than she was, and drug them toward their trap. "I get that the whole 'Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer' thing gives you a leg up around Irving and all them, but you don't need to do it with me. 'less you want to. Free country."

"I wish to return to this unfrozen neolithic solicitor at a later date. But to what _leg up _do you refer?"

"I'll only tell you if you keep working. We're on a deadline here."

Crane seemed almost startled to find that he was no longer chopping, but was standing at parade rest, with his hands—and the ax—clasped behind his back. He always gave her his full and undivided attention, which took some getting used to. If he was talking to you, he was _talking to you—_no peeking at a phone or a watch or anything.

He snapped into action and decapitated a sapling with two sharp blows. "Continue."

"You like it when people underestimate you. It means you can get close to them, get under their guard, surprise them when you're not actually stupid. Plus, people leave you alone more that way. Gives you time to work out your own plan, which you know'll work. When people dismiss you, it gives you a lot of freedom."

Crane had stopped again, his lips parted. "This is why you volunteered to be the bait in our trap, isn't it? You thrive under a similar, though different advantage: You believe that because you are small, because you are female, that you will not be perceived as a threat by the Horseman."

"Mhmm. Used to it. I may be emancipated and all, but that doesn't mean it's easy being a cop when you're either short, black, or a woman. I just hit the jackpot." She smiled and shrugged, because she wouldn't have it any other way. Plus, perps were stupid and thought they could take advantage of her "weakness." Just meant they were easier to take down.

"It seems my brother Masons aren't the only ones who insist on cleaving to traditional gender roles, even in your most _enlightened _era."

"About that—how come you aren't telling me to get in the kitchen and make you a sandwich? The 1700s wasn't exactly a great time for women, I hear. And give me that ax if you're not going to use it." She thrust a hand toward him, casting a worried glance at the sun. Too fast. It was going down too fast. Irving better find those UV lights soon.

Crane grasped the ax near its head and extended the handle to her like it was a sword. She bowed, and he clucked his tongue.

"You have to bend at the knees, very slightly. If you come directly from the waist, it appears as though you have some sort of stomach ailment." He demonstrated another sweeping bow, as he had at the baseball field. She grinned at the memory.

"Looks better when you do it," she said. "But seriously, you don't hear about the founding mothers. Except Betsy Ross, and she's famous 'cause she sewed. Not exactly badass."

"To my utter lack of surprise, history has done my female revolutionary colleagues a grave disservice—further reason to distrust your assessment of Jefferson." He took his coat off, carefully folding it over a low limb. "Abigail Adams was twice the man her husband was, and a lady besides. She thoroughly earned my respect. As did my fellow comrade at arms, Robert Shurtliff. It took us a year to discover her true name was Deborah Sampson. She served with great distinction and bravery—not to mention her talent at subterfuge."

That teacher act he did so well drifted slowly away and was replaced with something hard, cold, and brittle. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "And then, Katrina. How could I ever think a woman's place was only at the hearth when I knew her heart and her spirit?"

Abbie hated when he talked about Katrina. Not because she had anything against the witch, even if her timing for visions was pretty crappy. Katrina seemed nice. But every time he thought of her, Abbie could see that it _hurt_. And when people she cared about got hurt, Abbie just wanted to fix it. It was one of the reasons she'd become a cop: That guy hit you? Let's get him in jail. Simple cause and effect, problems solved while you wait. But sometimes, it wasn't that simple. Sometimes, it was about tackling problems in order of priority: Right now Abbie wasn't even sure they'd be able to _save the world_, forget busting Katrina out of purgatory.

She couldn't fix this for him.

If Abbie were a good friend, she'd put a hand on his shoulder and tell him that they'd get Katrina back. That she promised. But she hated that kinda thing—every time a cop in the movies did it, it drove her nuts. There were no promises. Sometimes the good guys fuck up or are just outgunned and outsmarted. There might not _be _a way to get Katrina back; what if they freed her, she went back to 1781 and he stayed here? Or somehow it sent her back in time and Abbie lost him? Who knew how it all worked?

Bottom line: She couldn't fix Ichabod's problem. Not today. All she could do was change the subject.

"Y'know, there've been some amazing women since then, too. Sojourner Truth, Susan B. Anthony—she was from upstate, in Rochester—Rosa Parks. You could learn about them if you'd learn to use the Internet instead of acting so...prissy and English about it."

"I may be British by birth, but I am as American as apple tart, thank you very much," he said, hefting the ax onto his shoulder like a lumberjack.

"Now you just think you're funny, huh?"

"I do find myself quite droll, from time to time."

He said it in such a proud, peacocky way that she just busted out laughing. "Okay, funny guy. Let's just hope Headless underestimates us both."


	5. A Vast Ocean

He reached for the telephone, but at the last moment, his hand strayed to the bottle of bourbon just beside it. This, he decided, was safer by far than messaging her. Bourbon would keep his secrets, bear his shame, and would require no apologies. He refilled his glass. He'd started the evening by heavily watering the beverage, as was his custom, but he forwent the nicety this time. The rough Kentucky beverage—he again gave his silent thanks to Sheriff Corbin- burned its way down his throat unimpeded.

On many nights before, he had resisted the comforting oblivion of drink. But tonight? No. Tonight, he needed distance with himself. If he sat in silence and thought, he would have to consider that his love for Katrina had turned his dearest friend into a creature from a nightmare. That the last words he'd spoken to Abraham—words he'd regretted every instant since they escaped his mouth—had been begging for his blessing instead of begging his forgiveness and offering comfort.

Yes, Abraham's choices were his own. But Ichabod had helped him far, far up that garden path.

Even a goodly quantity of the bourbon could not bring enough distance. His hand approached the telephone again.

Ichabod understood that he only wanted to speak to Mills because she was the nearest approximation he had for speaking to Katrina. Certainly, he'd murmured a few reassuring words at his wife's gravestone and sworn to protect her from all harm, but in the end, he had only been speaking to air. He wanted herto tell him that everything would be all right, that they would triumph.

Suddenly, he wasn't at all sure which _her_ he meant.

No, no. Katrina, most assuredly. But that was impossible for now. And his compulsion to speak with Mills was furthered by his need to absolve himself of yet more guilt. He had been in the wrong today, insisting on staying with the Horseman (_with Abraham_, a sinister voice in the back of his mind whispered) and nearly dying for his trouble. He had been in the wrong when he said he was in control—the very fact that he had shouted the words was proof that no, he was far, far from control, and had been ever since he'd awoken.

Mills deserved his apology. Yes, that was why he would extend a message to her. For no other reason at all.

He admired the way the reddish gold bourbon gleamed in the firelight before downing the remaining contents of the glass. He refilled it, steeled himself, and seized the telephone. After a few moments of trial and error, the screen informed him that it was in the process of calling "Abbie."

He waited.

A click, and then a familiar voice, though foggy and scratchy, as if the words had been pushed through an ear horn before reaching him. "Crane?" she asked, with more than a hint of concern. "You okay?"

Despite the impossibility of communicating with her over all the miles that separated them—not for the first time, he wondered where she lived, what it was like, if she ever sat in the candlelight as he did—he slid down in his chair at the sound of her voice, letting tense muscles uncoil.

"Ah, yes. Are you able to hear me?" he said, enunciating each syllable with extra care; his accent and diction sometimes baffled her even when they spoke in the flesh, so perhaps it would be more difficult over this telephone.

"Loud and clear. Little too loud and clear, actually. You can talk normally."

"Is—is this an inconvenient moment for you?" Perhaps he could leave another "voice mail" as a calling card? He was desperately unsure of the etiquette involved here. What if she were indisposed, or indecent? "I could call back at a later time, or I can simply see you tomorrow, if that-"

"What'd I tell you about being all English on me? You're fine. What's up?" Faintly, papers rustled.

"Did I interrupt your reading?" he asked. "I was just finishing a book of poetry-'Leaves of Grass' by-"

"Oh, man. I _hated _Whitman in high school. All that 'Captain, My Captain' _Dead Poets Society _crap. It's just cheesy."

"Given my own wartime service, I found it rather poignant," he sniffed. "And what, pray tell, were you reading that involves fewer curds and less whey?"

"Didn't say I was reading anything better. It's trash, it's stupid." Movement. "But what did you call about?"

"I divulged what I was reading; the least you could do is return the favor," he pressed. "Perhaps I shall add it to my extensive reading list."

"It's called 'Inferno,'" she began. He pounced on the familiar name.

"You call Dante 'trash'? My, I have missed many great developments in literature."

"Not quite. It's by this guy, Dan Brown. It's all secret societies and a lot about Masons, weirdly enough." His eyes drifted closed as he listened, the telephone in one hand, the glass of bourbon dangling betwixt the fingers of the other. It took him a moment to realize she'd stopped speaking.

"Do go on. Haven't you heard enough of the exploits of my brothers?"

"Well, yeah. I kinda think now, more of it may be true than I thought. But even if it's not, the good guys almost always win in his books. It's not always easy or pretty—one time this seriously bad dude got elected pope—but usually the cops get the bad guys and the world lives to fight another day."

"May life imitate art," he murmured.

"But seriously, you didn't call me to talk about books. I didn't think you'd call me unless it was life or death—even then it was pretty dicey."

He scrabbled for another topic. "Miss Jenny. How is she?"

It was as if the air between them—quite a lot of air, he mused—had suddenly grown considerably colder. "Fine. Not here. Having lunch with her tomorrow. Again, you didn't call for an update on my sister. So what's up?" she insisted.

She was far more stubborn than any mule Ichabod had ever known. Today, for instance, when he'd wanted nothing more than to scream and froth at the Horseman until poor, miserable Brooks had divulged every secret, she had calmly told him no. Her wisdom and her patience had likely saved his life.

And yet—and yet! When he'd needed her to, she'd trusted him. Never for a moment had she believed him capable of murdering his partner (or at least killing him without just cause—she was, above all, a pragmatist). When he had sworn he would stay with the Horseman, she had left him. And by then, he had been calm enough to think, to reason. To survive.

"I wished to apologize. For shouting at you today. It was uncalled for, and you have my most sincere apologies for the lapse," he said.

At first, he was worried perhaps he had offended her. But as the silence stretched, he fell into a growing concern that the telephone had waylaid their connection. He shook the device, then pressed it back against his ear. That's when he heard it.

She was laughing.

Ichabod pushed himself back upright, nearly spilling the contents of his glass. "What? What have I said now that is so amusing?"

"The fact that you felt the need to _apologize _for raising your voice slightly when you were trying to interrogate your mortal—no, make that _im_mortal—enemy and knowing he had some kind of freaky connection to your wife." She hooted with laughter. "You needed to let some steam out or you were gonna pop," she said, not unkindly and still with an abundance of mirth.

He had to admit, he had felt slightly better after the outburst. "Nonetheless," he demurred, "you were not the target of my anger. It was unfair to treat you as such."

"We're cool, Crane. In the future, just remember all that stuff about your ears being open to my whatever. I know what I'm talking about. As long as we aren't talking about crazy ciphers or Middle English or something," she said.

"I know you do. You are-" He paused for a drink. Somehow, in the commission of that act, he audibly slurped. "You are a very fine witness, to say nothing of your abilities as a lieutenant."

"You drinking over there, Crane? Coulda told me, I'd've cracked a beer. Here, wait." Footsteps. He licked a stray drop of liquor from his lower lip. A door opened, then closed. An odd _hiss-crack _sound, then a glug. "Cheers. To knowing the Horseman's weakness."

Ichabod had hefted his glass toward the toast, but when she finished her sentence, he placed it on the table, untasted. "Yes. His weakness. My wife."

"Yeah, it's not the most convenient weakness," she said, in perhaps the single largest understatement he had yet heard—and he'd heard Franklin boast about the size of his endowment. "But it's better to know than not know. This way we can..." she trailed off. "We can make sure we can protect her."

"You don't mean that. You told me to take Lieutenant Brooks' head if he turned on us, even though you care for him in some way. The same is true of Katrina: if you believed it would save the world, you would sacrifice her in a moment." Somehow, his voice had become rather high. Almost angry. He tamped down on the emotion. Control. He must regain it.

"You pretty much killed _yourself _for that exact same reason. You really gonna get self-righteous on me about one person versus the world now?" Another glug. A soft sigh.

"There is a vast ocean of difference between sacrificing oneself and exacting a sacrifice from another," he said, though he knew in his heart of hearts that she was correct. And Katrina would be the first to sacrifice herself for the good of them all. There was no question of that.

"But right now, nobody's sacrificing anybody, so let's talk about something else. Like, how'd you learn to sword fight like that?"

"You mean how to lose quite unceremoniously to a far superior combatant? My father taught me, of course. Or rather, the tutors he hired did." He rested his head against the Sheriff's chair; it was wonderfully comfortable and smelled of old leather. "I always preferred firearms. With a pistol in my hand, there is no deadlier foe than I."

He could almost see her smile behind his eyelids. "Oh yeah? I'll take you to the shooting range one of these days, and we'll see who's the deadliest."

"I shall take great pleasure in besting you," he said quietly. He wedged the telephone between his cheek and shoulder. There. Better. "Tell me more of your book, of this new 'Inferno.'"

"Well, I guess it does have something to do with Dante—he was in Florence, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, so Robert Langdon, who's a world-famous cryptographer, is in Florence. Kinda reminds me of you, actually, but with seriously bad hair. So he wakes up with amnesia, and..." She kept talking until her words blurred to become pure sound, soothing and indistinct as the ocean.

He awoke sometime later, strange lines pressed against his cheek and a faint ache in his head. The telephone bore a message in too-bright green letters.

"Message from...Abbie," it read. "night. you know you snore?"


	6. Heartbreaker

_Hey folks! There are a few oblique references to JWAB's fantastic fic, "Conversations with Photographs." I've pretty much incorporated her story into my own personal canon, and you should too. _

* * *

Jenny placed fries on her bacon cheeseburger in a careful grid formation. Three horizontal, three vertical. Then she smothered the bun in hot sauce, replaced it, and proceeded to demolish the burger.

Abbie sipped her coffee. "Where're you staying?"

"You don't need to know. Woulda taken Corbin's cabin—bet he'd've wanted me to have it—but it's taken," Jenny said around a mouthful of burger.

Christ, how had this turned into a "no, Daddy loved _me _more" argument? Jesus. "If you want it that bad, I can find somewhere else for Crane. It was just convenient, is all, and the backwoods thing makes him feel more at home. But if you really want, I can get the department to pay-"

"Or we could be roomies." Jenny smiled slyly.

"Cute." This was such a mistake. Why had she thought anything would be different? That Jenny would be able to forgive her or, hell, that they'd even _like _each other after all this time? That ship had sailed a long time ago.

"Who said I was being cute? Don't tell me you haven't hopped on that yet. Hey, can I get some more Coke?" she yelled to Millie.

Abbie's ears felt hot. She didn't normally blush over sex, but talking about Crane that way just felt wrong. He wasn't some dude you picked up in a bar when you were lonely and horny. She'd been there, done that, but for Jenny to think of Crane that way? Wrong. Way wrong. "We are not having this conversation."

"I have been locked up in a looney bin for a long, long time, and I wasn't gay for the stay. So if you aren't shacking up with tall, weird, and British, why should I let him go to waste?"

Millie plunked a fresh cup of Coke onto the table. Abbie thanked her quietly, waiting until she was gone to continue. "He's married, if that means anything to you. Plus, he's from the eighteenth century. Don't think they did one night stands."

"Right, they were all good little boys back then. Fuck that noise." Jenny ate her fries systematically, nibbling each one with small but quick bites. No movement was wasted, and her eyes darted from side to side, like someone might take the food from her. "I'm ready to end my dry spell."

"Go for it." The chances of Crane actually sleeping with her were about as remote as the chance Abraham would grow a new head. Actually, maybe that possibility wasn't so remote. She'd have to talk to him about it. "Tell me how it works out." She shuddered. "Wait, don't. Please don't."

Jenny rolled her eyes, mopping up a last bit of ketchup with her finger. "You know how I dreamed about a burger like this? We pretty much got straight-up Oliver Twist gruel."

"I am sorry you were institutionalized," Abbie said in clipped tones. It was the only way she could avoid a string of blistering curses. "But I didn't put you in that place. You put yourself there." Ichabod had told her she had to start forgiving herself; maybe this was the first step. She had done what needed to be done, and Jenny was in charge of her own actions.

"By telling the truth. And you could've backed me up, gotten me out."

"Gotten locked up myself, more like." It was easier not to feel guilty when Jenny acted this way, all self righteous and crazier-than-thou. The guilt would probably come roaring in late tonight, while she was trying to get some sleep. When she stared up at the ceiling and tried to imagine what it had been like to live in a psych-drug haze for all those years, eating nutritional gruel.

"Keep telling yourself that, _sis._" Jenny threw the word and her balled napkin at Abbie, then stood and stalked toward the door. Abbie kept her face impassive, staring into the depths of her coffee cup.

Until she heard him.

"Miss Jenny, what an unexpected pleasure," said Tall, Weird ,and British.

Abbie couldn't look. She scrutinized the table, where kids had chiseled their initials in the fake wood veneer.

"Crane," Jenny drawled. "Y'know, we need to get together sometime. Just you and me. Get a drink. You know Sullivan's?"

Abbie was impressed by the quality of the hearts they'd carved around their initials. She knew from experience that shit was not easy.

"That is the tavern where the magazine used to be, yes?"

She wondered if these kids—TM+NB-were still together. Probably not, she decided.

"Sure, probably. Meet you there at eight."

The bell on the door jangled. A minute later, Ichabod came to his parade rest next to her table. Abbie ran her finger around the outlining heart, then forced herself to look up at him. She squinted. "You wearing jeans, Crane?"

He was still wearing his standby shirt and coat, but he'd swapped his breeches for a pair of the dark blue Levi's she'd picked out for him. Still had the boots, though. It was a weird mishmash of past and present, like he'd gotten half changed for a war reenactment or something. Honestly, you couldn't see much of the jeans, but still, Abbie wasn't sure she liked it.

"You _did _purchase them for me. I thought it rude not to wear them at least once, to see how it feels. So far it feels somewhat...binding. May I sit?"

That made her crack a smile, though it was a sad little thing. "Course."

He slid into the booth opposite her, behind Jenny's empty plate. "I take it from your rather melancholy countenance that Miss Jenny was not quite so cordial with you as she was with me."

"Nope." And she really didn't want to talk about it, thank you very much. She knew that Crane was only trying to be nice by "helping" her reconnect with Jenny, but she didn't want his help. She wasn't even sure she wanted to reconnect. "Least I can say I tried." Ish.

Crane opened his mouth, and she was sure she was in for a lecture, but Millie swooped in with a heaping helping of pot roast and a glass of water. No ice, but a bendy straw. "Extra carrots for you, Ichabod, just like you like."

"Miss Millie, you are far too good to me. My most profound gratitude to both you and your fine cook." As always, Abbie was amazed at how much he seemed to _mean _what he said. She said words like "please" and "thank you" because she was supposed to; but for him, they were important and heartfelt.

As soon as Millie stepped away, Crane leaned forward. "Truth be told, I already ate—it seems a waste to consume pre-prepared food when there is such a stockpile in my dwelling. But the serving woman is determined to fatten me up. Will you assist me?"

Abbie shook her head, but dished a portion of the roast and vegetables onto Jenny's empty plate. "Between her and Jenny, you're gonna be quite the heartbreaker in this town."

"Miss Jenny? What does she have to do with breaking hearts?" Despite his protests, he wasted no time chowing down.

"She just asked you out on a date, Crane." _Or at least a booty call, _she added to herself. No way she was explaining that modern concept to him.

Crane's brown furrowed. He lay down his fork and knife, one crossed over the other. "You mean to say she is courting me? But-"

Abbie shook her head. "No way. I am not getting in the middle of this. You two work it all out. You want to get with my sister, that's your guys' business. Not mine." She pushed pearl onions around her plate, appetite gone.

"Miss Jenny is a lovely young woman and a great asset to our cause, but I don't wish to 'get with' her. Assuming that means what I think it means." Abbie nodded confirmation. "I feel nothing for her except admiration for her abilities and friendship. Besides, it would be most untoward."

"Yeah. You being married and all." That's why Abbie felt a vague sense of outrage about all of this. It was her _sister. _And the guy who was fast becoming her best friend. And he was _married. _Just wrong on all levels.

"'til death do us part," Crane said, his lips slashing into a mirthless smile. "I believe we've gone quite a bit beyond that, at this point." He turned his head to the side, eyes sharpening. "Did you ever reconnect with your former beau?"

"Morales? No. Called a few times, but he's not answering. Guess he's mad I stood him up. Which is cool. He's the one who wanted to be friends in the first place, not me."

He was still looking at her, all intense and piercing. "Do you believe it's possible to be amicable with someone for whom you hold romantic intentions?"

She looked away. "Didn't work for you and Katrina."

"I was prepared to do precisely that, for the sake of her happiness and Abraham's."

"But she wasn't."

"No."

Abbie stretched her arms over her head. Her back popped with a satisfying twinge. She settled back down and shrugged. "I've never had it work out. Things just always start to get weird. One side wants things they can't have, and...I dunno. Once somebody realizes they're in love, they're always gonna be hurt, you know? Even if they still like being friends, they're gonna want that little bit more."

"Perhaps you're right."

They both picked at their pot roast. "But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I should give it another shot with Luke."

"He seems very..." Crane paused, clearly searching his vast vocabulary for just the right word. "...Committed to the constabulary."

"Go ahead. Say it." Crane arched an eyebrow. "Say you hate his guts."

He laughed, ducking his head. "I do not know him well enough to hate him at this stage; I shall reserve judgment. But if you care for him, there must be some worth to his character which has not yet been revealed to me. If his friendship is worth having, you should try again."

"Yeah. He's not a bad guy. Dunno that's he's that good a guy, but he's not bad, either. And you should go for drinks with Jenny. If you want."

"Perhaps we could...what is the phrase? 'Double date'? Platonically, of course."

Abbie rolled her eyes, gesturing for the check. "Let the Horseman take me now."

"Don't say such things, even in jest," said Crane, scandalized.

"Jest is all we got left."

"And each other."

She smiled. "Yeah. That too."


	7. Well Done

Most of the bottle of rum was gone before she persuaded him to visit her home and partake in the remnants of the Thanksgiving meal. Truth be told, he did not want to go, but he knew he _needed _to. Left to his own devices, he would brood and think and research feverishly. The whole world could perish and he would not give a damn, as long as he knew the fate of his son.

The words still made his heart flutter. Some part of him wondered, anxiously, if he would be a good father, though he knew the idea was absurd. The boy—_his _boy—had lived and, in all likelihood, died, centuries ago. Even if his son had survived the demonic forces swirling all about them, even if he had lived a joyful, long life (albeit one without a father), he would still be dead.

He would never know his son.

Unless...was there a way the boy could be with Katrina? It was not a fate to wish for, but if it meant he could gaze upon his son, learn his name, see if he had Katrina's flaming red hair and his own too-long nose, perhaps...

But no. Surely Katrina would have mentioned if she had a companion in her shadowy world. Though she was better at keeping secrets than he had suspected.

"Keep the change," Mills said, pressing a bill into the cab hostler's hand. She slammed her door, and he scrambled to follow her up the path to her apartment.

This, this right here, this was why he could not isolate himself. He would have time and opportunity for that, but if he were ever going to learn more about his son or a way to free the child's mother, it would take Abbie's help. _Mills, _he reminded himself sternly. And it was true: she was clever and brave and strong. She could make connections in a way that astounded him, such as discovering the miraculous cure of the waters of Roanoke. If there was a way to save his family, he would require her assistance to find it.

But it was more than that. She had kept him sane in these first days of madness. Sometimes, he had been able to forget for whole minutes what he had lost. In those instants, he could almost envision a future here, a time when the apocalypse had been averted and he simply lived in this monstrous and wondrous era. And in those futures, all he could see was her.

Now? Now he couldn't go a second without thinking of what had been stolen from him. He needed her to ground him, help him, perhaps-

The unmistakable odor of scorched flesh assaulted Ichabod's nostrils before they reached Mills' door. "Dear God." He was instantly on guard, crouched and searching for a weapon. "Some sort of fire demon, perhaps? I don't detect brimstone, but-"

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door, keys dangling from her fingers. Her shoulders slumped."It's not a demon." She lifted her head and fitted her key to the lock. "Hope you like your turkey well done."

Once the door had been opened, the stench intensified and he at once divined her meaning. There on the table was a massive turkey. It was almost entirely black. Sullen smoke continued to rise from the charred corpse.

"Jenny?" she called. When there was no answer, she checked first her telephone, then the small round table dominated by the bird. "No text. No note. Nice. Real nice."

Ichabod stepped into her narrow kitchen, fashioned quite like a ship's galley. More indignities presented themselves: potatoes, still in their jackets, had boiled dry on the stove. An opened can revealed a gelatinous purple mound. He prodded it with a finger; it sprung back. Aspic in a can? He shuddered.

"Do you think Miss Jenny is all right? Could something have happened to her, to call her away so unexpectedly?" He wiped his soiled finger on his breeches.

"I think she saw that she fucked up and ran for the hills," she said flatly. She twisted a knob on the stove, extinguishing the heat beneath the potatoes. "I was trying to do the right thing by having her live with me. I'm her conservator, so she can't just be living...wherever the hell she was living. But-" she bit off the word and shook her head. "Sorry. So much for Thanksgiving dinner."

"You owe me no apologies. On the contrary, your sister owes you a rather significant one for leaving your home in such a state." He strode to the window and threw open the sash. Frigid but fresh air seeped in.

"Yeah, well, I ain't gonna hold my breath waiting for it. This is just classic Jenny." She bent, retrieving a black sack from beneath her sink. She approached the turkey warily, as if it might spring to life. He couldn't rule out the possibility that it might.

"You are simply going to accept her deplorable behavior? Clean up her mess and pretend this never happened? No. I refuse. Send her a message or signal with your telephone. Speak to her. This is unacceptable behavior in your home," he said.

"It won't help. You gonna give me a hand with this?" She shook the sack open.

"At the very least, you should not have to toil to rectify her thoughtlessness."

Her hand slammed onto the table with surprising force. The turkey levitated slightly, then collapsed even further upon itself. "_What _do you want me to do, Crane? I'm not going to sit with this mess in my house so I can prove a point to my asshole sister."

Crane took a step back, shocked by the anger in her voice. She must have seen his surprise, for the anger bled away at once. "I'm sorry. This is all just...it's so stupid, compared to what you're going through. I don't even have a right to complain about anything," she said.

"What absolute twaddle," he said at once. "Pain is not a competition, and the good Lord knows there is more than enough to share between us. You are entitled to sorrow or anger or any other emotion you like." Were it a competition, he did rather suspect he would win, but his words were still true. Family was always difficult; hers held particular challenges.

She opened her mouth to reply, then turned her head to the side and smiled. "Did you just say 'twaddle'?"

His brow furrowed. "Yes. What of it?"

"And you make fun of 'selfie'?"

"It is a ludicrous word for a self-indulgent concept. But you, Miss Mills, are changing the subject." He stepped forward and took the plastic sack from her. He held it open while she disposed of the turkey. A criminal waste of a beautiful bird.

"There's nothing to say. Wish there were. Wish I thought I could change her. But I can't. Jenny's gonna do what Jenny's gonna do. All _I_ can do is make sure she doesn't get herself killed until she's back on her own two feet." She shrugged and tied off the top of the bag. "I'm gonna go take this to the Dumpster. You wanna start running some hot water?"

She left without waiting for an answer, but he did not immediately adjourn to the kitchen. He took the moment to examine her home. With the exception of the carnage in the kitchen, it was all quite tidy. Small, but he liked that. Compact and efficient, like her. The walls were mostly bare of decoration, white and plain, save for a bookshelf full to the brim with titles. A pillow and several folded blankets were stacked neatly on the couch, no doubt Miss Jenny's bed of late. A corridor led, presumably, to bed and bathing chambers. Curiosity beckoned, but he would not pry.

Crane followed his orders, running hot water (truly, the greatest miracle of the modern age) and beginning to scrub the potato pan. She returned and took her place beside him. "You have a lovely home," he said earnestly. "It suits you."

"It's not much, but it's mine." Her voice was tinged with pride.

Ichabod cast his mind back to the house of horrors. "You are fond of your home. Is that why you dislike haunted houses with such vehemence?"

"Maybe. I disliked that one 'cause it was trying to kill us. But I guess...bad stuff doesn't happen at home. It happens in the woods, in the streets. If even the place you lay your head isn't safe, nowhere is."

He liked that idea; he would not mention the revolutionaries killed in their homes, the slaughter of native peoples in their dwellings. It was too lovely a notion to ruin it with something as petty as reality.

They worked in silence for a time. His thoughts drifted to home, a word which had meant so many things. An estate in England, rolling and green. A cramped dormitory in Cambridge. The small but happy home he had shared, far too briefly, with Katrina.

He shied away from the thought. Not now. Now, he would be with his friend. "If you wish, I could speak to Miss Jenny."

She laughed, squirting a brightly colored liquid into the water. It foamed furiously. "Tell me how that conversation would go down."

"I would merely explain to her that regardless of the difficulties between you, there is no excuse for rudeness. That punishing you is not productive, and that you two should be kind to each other. After all, she is the last of your blood, is she not?"

"Probably got some cousins somewhere," she said. "But no, I don't want you to talk to her. Thanks, though. But we'll work it out. If she wants to, we'll work it out."

"I only wish that I could help more. You have..." He cleared his throat. "You have done so much for me. Even before today, you have been an immense comfort to me. Thanks alone are insufficient, but I shall offer them regardless. Thank you."

"You're welcome." She took the pot from him, wiping it dry with a cloth. "And Crane? You help a lot. Just not having to deal with this alone helps. I know this all sucks for you pretty hardcore, but I'm glad you're here."

He offered a thin smile. The situation did, indeed, suck. But if they must bear the weight, at least they could carry it together.

* * *

_And, dear reader, I am thankful for you. My gratitude for your reviews, favorites and follows. Happy Thanksgiving, friends._


	8. Action and Reaction

_Special thanks go to WildYennifer, who offered sage character advice, and to JWAB, who wrote a smutty and awesome spinoff (!) of the last chapter. Go read "Working Late."_

* * *

"I am already proficient in the use of firearms." He sounded like a kid whining that he'd already brushed his teeth. Well, he could pout all he wanted, but he needed a break from combing genealogy books for any trace of his son. There'd be time for that—or they'd talk to Katrina, which wouldn't be awkward at all—but he needed to get out and _do _something. Might as well be something useful.

"You know how to use a flintlock pistol. Guns today are different, and if you keep shooting them one-handed, you're gonna get yourself killed. Or me." He held the door for her as they walked into the shooting range; she handled getting their ear protection and weapons. "Just sign 'em both out in my name, Walter. Thanks."

They had the place to themselves; at the tail end of Thanksgiving weekend, most guys were still with their families. She'd seen Jenny only once since the turkey fiasco, and it hadn't gone well. So maybe, just maybe, this little field trip was a good distraction for her, too.

But mostly for him. And in the name of keeping him from getting his skinny ass killed.

She carefully placed the ear protection, firearms, and clips on the table near range number three. Crane immediately grabbed the oversized earphones. "What on earth are these for? Do you listen to music while you shoot?" He held the ear pieces far apart, then let them spring together.

"It's to keep you from going deaf. A handgun in an enclosed space like this is real loud." Abbie inspected both weapons—sometimes they got sloppy with the cleaning—but these seemed okay.

"Ah. It is perhaps too late for me. During the War, we did not have such protection, and I assure you, even in outdoor spaces, the sound of cannon fire could leave your ears ringing for days."

"You sound almost like you miss it."

"Most of it, no. But the moments when thought fled and all that remained was pure instinct, action and reaction, all of that noise but the sound of your heart roaring above it all...yes, perhaps. Perhaps I do." His lips twitched sideways for a sec, but then he pointed to the paper cutouts sitting next to them. "Shall we use targets or these charming human-shaped cutouts?"

"No point in pretending we aren't shooting at people. Or people-shaped things, anyway." She clipped one of the cutouts to the target and wound it into place. "Okay. We're working with Glock nine millimeter pistols. Standard issue for cops."

"As I said, I have fired one before," he insisted. "Certainly I have seen you fire them on multiple occasions."

"You got lucky. That is not how you handle a weapon like this." Guns were to be respected and handled on their own terms. Maybe his stance was right for a dueling pistol or whatever the hell he'd used, but this was a goddamn Glock. Different rules.

"It achieved the desired result," he sniffed.

Abbie started to argue with him again, then shrugged. "'kay. You put the clip in until you hear it click. Then you pull the slide back. Make sure the safety's off—this button—and you're ready to fire." As she narrated, she prepped one of the pistols. Then, with the safety on, she handed him the weapon, butt first. "Let's see what you've got. There's six rounds in there. If you can get three in a kill zone, I'll take you back and let you mope all day."

"I was not _moping_-"

"You were moping. Not that you don't have good reasons and all, but still. Now if you want to get back to it, kill some paper bad guys." He muttered something she couldn't make out, but turned toward the target. "Ear protection, Crane." She tossed him a pair. There was more muttering as he put them on. She grinned and did the same.

He took that dueling stance he'd used before: turned to the side, gun at the end of a stiff arm, the other tucked behind his back. Ready, aim, fire. His arm shuddered with the recoil, though not as much as she'd expected. The bullet hole appeared in the cutout's upper shoulder, almost off the paper. He glanced back at her, but she just held up five fingers.

To his credit, he did get two in the kill zone: one solidly in the chest and another about where the subject's teeth would be. She gave him that one, though it wasn't a definite kill. The others were either off the paper or low on the target's torso.

They tugged their protection off. "Perhaps," he said slowly, looking down at the weapon, "there is a thing or two you might teach me about these 'Clocks.'"

"Glocks and you know it."

He cracked what might be the first genuine smile she'd seen since he'd discovered he was father to a lost boy. "I shall allow you to teach me-"

"Oh, thanks for that."

"-Provided you, at some later date, allow me to instruct you in the sword."

"Thought you said you sucked at sword fighting."

"'Suck' is perhaps a strong word. Actually, I'm not sure. _Is _it a strong word?" he asked curiously.

"Are you really bad at it?"

"Only in comparison to Abraham. He was something special." His eyes were far away again, looking into a past only he could see.

Nope. "Sure. You find some swords and we'll play pirates. But in the meantime, we're learning to use pistols." She slid him a clip. "Put this in."

Together, they walked through all the basic Gun Handling 101 stuff. If they were really going to be partners—in the police sense, they already were in every other sense of that word—he needed to know how to handle himself with modern weaponry.

"Feet shoulder width apart, your right foot back a little. Bend your knees. No, less. Good."

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "This feels very odd."

"That's 'cause you keep turning your hips. Stop that." She put her hands on either side of his waist and tugged him back toward center. He froze, obliques tensing beneath her fingers, and she immediately stepped back, hands in the air.

"No, Ab—excuse me, Leftenant. You're quite all right. It's simply..." He looked back at her, and goddammit, there was nothing _simple _about that look. It was lonely, lost, hungry. He wanted someone he couldn't have, at least not right now. Someone he might not ever see again. Way to go, Mills. Great job cheering the dude up.

"Sorry. Just, your hips were wrong," she said lamely. Even from that brief touch, she could smell him on her hands, like leather and old books.

"Do not apologize," he said softly, and something inside of Abbie ached. It was just because _he_ was in pain, she told herself. More shit she couldn't fix. But...

But nothing. There were no buts in this situation. "Hip position is really important, though. Helps keep you stable and on-target. Your body's conditioned to turn to the side, so you're gonna have to fight that impulse. Just stay fixed on your target. Now, about your hands."

It would have been easier to take his hands and mold them into proper carrying position, but no way. She coached him instead, making sure he married his thumbs and kept his wrists down.

"Just remember to keep your arms bent just a little and you should be good to go. Oh, and before you were compensating to the right. These guys are pretty accurate, no need to do that."

Crane started to take the Weaver stance she'd just taught him, but then stopped. He placed the safety on the firearm—good boy—and handed it to her. "Would you care to demonstrate? I need to see all the pieces together, to make sure I do not make the same mistakes."

"Sure." They both put on their ear protection and she assumed her stance. It felt familiar, good. She liked shooting. Well, targets. Didn't much like shooting people. But the repetitive movements, the concentration, it was a nice head space to be in.

She didn't kill zone all six bullets. Just five. Her hand twitched and she went too far to the left, leaving the guy with a side wound that probably would've killed him, given enough time. When she turned to Ichabod, he was clapping politely, like they were at a golf match. Not that that would've meant anything to him. Then she started picturing him in one of those poofy hats and the plaid pants and dissolved into laughter.

He stared at her, and his wide eyes under his big headphones just made her laugh harder. He tore off his own protection, then, gently, pulled hers away from her ears. "You know how I hate missing out on a joke."

"It wouldn't make any sense if I explained it to you," she gasped.

His eyes gleamed. "Have I mentioned how much I'm looking forward to our fencing lessons?"

"Hey, you'll get your turn at kicking my ass. But not until you put in the work." She reached for another cutout, but paused. "Would it help if I cut the head off?"

He smiled grimly. Then he wound the target into place and drilled three shots into its heart.


	9. Parry

_Last chapter, I neglected to mention that the brilliant idea of Ichabod teaching Abbie the sword came from my dear friend JWAB. i always intended to mention it here. So thank you, friend, for sharing your brain with me. The rest of you, enjoy. _

* * *

"Again," he ordered. "This time, mind your feet. Your strides must be longer, lest your feet become tangled and you find yourself in this position again."

She glared up at him from where she sprawled in the dirt, but took his proffered hand and rose. Despite the chill autumn air, her cotton shirt was saturated with perspiration, clinging to her body in ways Ichabod studiously ignored. He stooped to retrieve her fallen practice sword, offering it to her with a flourish.

"This isn't really fair," she grumbled cheerfully. "You already knew how to shoot a gun. Swords pretty much stopped being a thing right after the Revolution. It's all new to me."

"The weapon itself, perhaps. But you _are_ familiar with the basic tenants of unarmed combat. The same principles of weight distribution and observing your opponent are in play here. We are simply adding sharp pointy objects to the equation."

To be fair, the practice swords were neither sharp nor pointy; they were crude wooden things he'd fashioned from lumber scavenged from the forest behind his—pardon, Sheriff Corbin's—cabin. The balance was all wrong and his was far too light, but they served, just as this clearing behind the cabin was an adequate dueling ring.

"_En garde_," he said, snapping his sword up smartly. "_Prête_."

"We gotta do the French?" she asked as she saluted.

"Yes. _Allez_."

They circled one another with slow, even steps. She surveyed him warily, as he had taught, but she was watching his sword. The real danger lay in his feet, for he would have to step toward her long before he could strike. He could have easily disarmed her, but he exercised patience.

She lashed out with a few standard strikes, all of which he parried. The _thwack _of the wooden swords was almost hypnotic. Here, there was no need to think, no need to remember. He appreciated that a great deal.

Eventually she wearied of his counters and stepped back, clearly calculating her next move. He waited. When it came, she offered a low slash just below his knees. A perfectly sound tactical decision: she was already close to the ground, and keeping her blow similarly low meant she did not open herself to attack. It was a perfect guard for protecting her most vulnerable places.

Of course, it was a simple matter for him to step to one side, snap his sword between her arm and body and, with a light tap, spin her so he had access to her perfectly vulnerable back. She tried to rally and whirl to face him, but he used her momentum to send her tumbling to the ground.

She was still blinking, dazed, when he gave the order. "Again."

Quick as a snake, she hooked one foot around the back of his knees. He struggled to the appropriate counter maneuver—moving his feet apart and stepping over her, child's play—but she had caught him in a moment of inattention. He managed to avoid falling directly onto her, but it was a near thing.

"Ow," he said.

"You big baby." He glanced over at her just in time to see her shake her head. "Probably not the best choice of words."

"If you please, Miss Mills, drawing attention to idioms which were well-worn even in my day only serves to exacerbate the awkwardness of the situation."

"Fair point." She arched her back and there was a faint creaking of bones. He worried he may have struck her too hard; he also knew she would be the first to chide him for holding back against her. "Are you-"

"Okay." He coughed up the word as if it were a bit of phlegm. "Yes. I believe _okay_ is exactly what I am, and I do wish you would cease inquiring over my mental state with such regularity. I am not made of glass. I shall endure." Perhaps if he said it enough times, it would become true.

"Okay." She seemed to take no offense at his snappishness, though certainly she had the right to.

Neither one of them moved from the ground, despite the chill that sneaked into their bones from the loamy earth. Above them, the sky was brilliantly blue and free of airplanes or other nuisances. From this angle, there was nothing at all to intrude upon his fantasy that they were in this very spot more than two hundred years ago.

Nothing except her.

"Does it make you uncomfortable, being in the forest?" he asked. _Bad things happen in the woods, _she had said. Certainly she had ample reason to hate the dark, leafless limbs around them, but she seemed at ease.

"It's not my favorite place. But you like it. And believe it or not, Sleepy Hollow does not have a fencing...whatever the hell place you practice fencing. So it works. Let's just not stay after dark, 'kay?"

"A reasonable request." He crumbled a leaf between his fingers, the earthy scent familiar and soothing. "Imagine you could go back to when you were young, to just after you saw Moloch with Miss Jenny. Would you behave differently? Would you corroborate her story?"

Leaves rustled. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Curiosity. Apologies if I have offended." He did not believe he had, however. She was questioning him to gain time to think. He would give her ample opportunity.

A raven croaked in the distance. They both shuddered.

"Knowing what I know now...no. I wouldn't." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her chin jutting up defiantly. "I wouldn't," she repeated, quite daring him to challenge her. "This town wasn't ready. _I _wasn't ready." He started to speak, but she continued in an unusual bout of loquaciousness. "I think maybe Jenny had to go through all that stuff to become the soldier we need her to be. And maybe I had to go through all that stuff to be the witness I've gotta be. That makes me a shitty sister, but there are bigger things going on than sisterhood."

"You are not a..." No, he couldn't bring himself to use the vulgarity with such casualness. "You are not a _bad_ sister."

"I'm not a good one, either. But what about you, Crane? If I could wave a magic wand right now and poof, you're back in 1781, maybe a little banged up after the battle but basically okay. Would you go?"

He began to answer that of course he would, and did she perchance have such a magic wand on her person? But then questions began to bubble inside him. "In this hypothetical situation, would the—would Abraham be dead?"

"It isn't—"

"And even if he were, the Hessians would have found someone else to imbue with the spirit of death. You cannot _not _have death; that isn't the way of the world."

"You're-"

"And so they would have crowned a new pale rider and oh dear, here comes the apocalypse again. Even under the best of circumstances, let us say the world muddled along until now without being devoured by Judgment Day. Where does that leave you? One witness against the forces of evil? This task is impossible enough with two—not that I haven't the greatest admiration for your abilities in this battle-"

"_Crane._" The word stopped him, silenced his whirring mind. He turned to her. "You're making this more complicated than it needs to be. I'm just asking: If right now, you could go back to the way you were. If you could go have tea and crumpets with your wife and your baby and not worry about this battle. Would you do it?"

He sat up, drawing his knees toward his chest. He plucked a leaf from his hair. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Because I needed a break from the ass kicking." Her voice was light, but her eyes were grave.

He would not tell her of the hours spent on his knees before Katrina's grave, begging for a sign, a word, a vision, any hint of knowledge. He would not tell her of the time spent in blinding despair as his wife's face grew ever dimmer, as her voice faded from memory, as the idea of his son became ever more ephemeral, the ghost of a boy rather than flesh and blood.

But nor would he tell her how beautiful he found this new world. Perplexing, yes. Baffling, certainly. But it was a world of flight and music; a world of stunning art and devastating destruction. Were he to return to his simpler time, he would miss the wonders and adventures here and now.

Under no circumstances would he tell her that his life would be infinitely poorer without her in it. Instead, he would parry.

"You are asking me for a simple answer, but I have none to give. And it is idle talk in the end. We are both where and when we are meant to be." His hand closed around his fallen sword. "And, Lieutenant, you have stalled quite long enough." He jabbed her lightly in the ribs. "To arms."

She seized the tip of the sword . "I will break that thing over my knee if you keep poking me with it."

He laughed. "For our next lesson, I shall endeavor to obtain real swords. Blunted, of course, but you'll find it's quite a different sensation to use finely balanced steel than these clumsy things."

"Next time, huh?" She brushed debris from her hindquarters. "Didn't we trade lessons one for one?"

"Indeed we did. But we both know you will not be able to walk away until you have bested me. And you won't do that today."

Her lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, okay. But I _will_ beat you one of these days."

"Of that, I have no doubt. Now, _en garde_."


	10. All the Way Home

Abbie pounded on the cabin door. "Crane. I need to talk to you." Nothing. "I know you're in there." A rustle, maybe a sigh, but no answer. "You're new to cell phones and all, but it's still rude to break up with your partner by text message."

The string of texts had been waiting for her when she came out of the shower. "My Fellow Witness," the first text began. Oh yeah, that didn't sound ominous at all. It only got worse as she kept reading:

_"There are no words to express the gratitude and depth of affection I hold for you. Your friendship has given me my few moments of true happiness and joy since my awakening, and I shall never be able to repay that kindness. Indeed, if Moloch's words are correct, I shall only repay you in betrayal and heartache, as I always have done—first to Abraham, then to Jeremy._

_For your sake, and only for your sake, I humbly request that we part ways. It is only in this separation that you can hope to keep your soul—your strong, virtuous, and brave soul!-in tact. If I cannot deliver that soul to Moloch, you will be free. You will be safe._

_Yes, we are witnesses and we are bound together. But bonds can be broken. Just as my tie to the Horseman was shattered, so shall I sever this bond between us. We shall continue the war, but we must take up arms in different battles._

_Please understand the pain this decision causes me, Abbie. You are, and always shall remain, my friend._

_With fondest regards,_

_Ichabod Crane."_

On the drive to the cabin, fumed at him, but mostly at herself. She should have known better, but she'd been trying to do the right thing. He'd asked for some time alone, and she'd assumed it was to mourn Jeremy and get his head on straight so they could gear up for Moloch. It seemed like the least she could do. So she'd given him a day. Which, stupid. They should have fenced, researched, chopped wood, eaten donuts. It didn't matter what they did, but too much time for alone was bad news for Crane. Then he started thinking and wallowing in guilt and then she got shit like this.

She knocked again. "You know I've got a key. You also know I could pick that lock or break the door down. But I'm not, because I trust you. You get to make your own decisions, but you don't get to decide the fate of the world like this. Not alone. Now open up."

"Miss Mills, please leave. My intentions have been made quite clear." Crane's voice was muffled, wavery, and thin. She wondered if he'd slept since he'd been pulled through the mirror. She hadn't.

"Yeah, well, my intention is to sit right here until you open up and talk to me." It was freezing; she really would prefer to do this sitting by the fire. But instead, she sank into the old rocking chair Corbin kept on the porch, pulling her coat close. The air smelled of pine from the wreath she'd hung on his door, back before all this began.

She sat patiently, listening to the wind whine through the trees. "I never could figure out why Corbin loved the woods so much. You can't see more than a few feet in front of you, they're dark, they always have that weird rotting smell. Plus, they're full of demons."

She thought she heard a faint snort through the door. There. Quantico had wanted Abbie for a reason: she was damn good at sizing up a person, figuring out their weak points, knowing just the right amount of pressure to apply. In a different life, she'd have made a good criminal profiler; she could say that without any ego. She'd squirreled under Henry's defenses with just a few words. But Crane? He was going to be harder to crack.

She could do it. She had to.

"I've spent my whole life being scared of Moloch. Jenny was the brave one. She'd have brought everyone down on him with pitchforks and torches from the very beginning. But you know what I did? Well, I lied. But after that, I went to church. And man, I prayed so hard. I thought that if I could just be good enough, if God _liked me _enough, maybe that thing wouldn't come back for me." She'd hit every church in town, searching for even a little bit of security and peace. She liked the Episcopal church best—less flashy than the Catholics, but with a comforting sense of tradition. Plus they did blessings there, and she'd wanted all those that she could get.

"But praying didn't keep him away," she continued. "The deeper we get into this, the less I think God has to do with it. Moloch's just another monster, and you and me? We fight monsters, and we win. But to be honest with you, he still scares me. It's even scarier to know he's gunning for me." She swallowed, seeing the same shadowy image that had appeared in her dreams every single solitary night for the last decade. Since Ichabod had given his warning, the image had become clearer and clearer every time she closed her eyes. "Don't make me fight him alone."

She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand. The sun was going down so fast; she didn't want to be in these woods after dark.

"I have failed all those I have cared for," he said softly. She almost lost the words in the wind. "You are all I have left. I cannot see you hurt by my hand."

"Oh, so as long as you don't have to see it, it's okay if he eats my soul? That's all cool as long as it's not by your hand?" Keep him talking. That was the key.

"Moloch said I would deliver your soul to him." His voice cracked; he sounded utterly broken. Abbie pressed her palm against the rough wooden door. She pulled it away again, feeling dumb. "If I am not near you, if we are not...entwined, as it were, your soul will be safe."

Abbie forced anger into her voice; all she really felt was tired. "There are two things wrong with that. The first is, 'Moloch says.' Why the hell would you believe a demon? Their whole point is to mess with you! That is _why they exist_. You're smarter than that." Abbie really, really hoped she was right about that. But either way, the thought was logical. It would make sense to him.

"And the second?"

"The second is that what he's telling you is impossible. Can't happen. You can't deliver my soul anywhere because it's _mine_. If anybody gives it away, it'll be me. And at least in the short-term, I like my soul right where it is. So will you please open the door?" Abbie didn't have any idea if that was true or not; she didn't remember anybody giving their soul away in the Bible, but clearly the Bible left a lot of shit out. Maybe Ichabod _could_ hand her soul over. Maybe he would, if he was given the chance to have his wife and son back. It was definitely possible.

But she knew she wasn't wrong about him. Crane was only the second person in her life she'd ever really trusted, and her gut still told her he wouldn't screw her over. Even knowing that he _might, _she still didn't want anyone but him watching her back.

"Ichabod, please," she said finally. Maybe she should have said the rest: that she needed him. That she cared about him. That neither of them had to do this alone. But for so many reasons, those words just wouldn't—couldn't-come. "Just let me in."

The door groaned and settled, as if a weight had leaned against it. When the wind was still, she could hear him breathing. But for once in his life, Crane was quiet.

She rocked slowly until the sun turned the sky to that icy orange you only see in the winter. Just as the last rays slipped away, she stood. "When you're ready to stop feeling sorry for yourself, you know where to find me."

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" poured from the radio as she started her car. Some awful noise, partway between a laugh and a sob, clawed its way up from the depths of her belly. Then she squared her shoulders, put the car into gear, and sang all the way home.


	11. Adeste Fideles

_My apologies if you received multiple new chapter notices about this; FF was being decidedly weird last night._

* * *

The very weather itself told Ichabod to turn back. _You are a danger_, the wind whispered. _You are a traitor, _the snow snickered. But despite the elements, he refused to bow his shoulders or slow his steps. He had spent time enough listening to those voices, and tonight was a night for miracles, a night for hope.

The red doors of Christ Episcopal Church were thrown open despite the weather, and warm light spilled onto the snow. With its crenelated tower and vaulted windows, it looked uncannily like the parish church of his childhood home. But the familiarity was not what made him break into a run, the flimsy plastic bag in his hand flapping in the wind.

"Miss Mills!"

She stopped, just on the edge of the halo of light which surrounded the church. He had fretted over this moment—among hundreds of other things he had fretted over—on his long walk here. Would she be vexed with him? Would she turn him away? Certainly she would be right to do so. He had failed her, had let his fear of losing her overcome his duty to her.

But when she saw him, her face was illuminated, her smile so bright, it was as if she had indeed seen an angel hovering o'er a humble stable. Despite his worry, the same transformation overtook him as he drew to a halt before her. "Good evening."

"Hey. How'd you know I'd be here?" Snowflakes caught in her dark eyelashes; she blinked them away.

"After your...discussion of your faith, I found it likely you would seek a spiritual home on this eve," he said. "Miss Millie, of the diner, was able to inform me of your church of choice."

"Small towns, no secrets. Well, c'mon."

She turned toward the church, but he took hold of her sleeve, holding it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. "Momentarily. Miss Mills, I feel I must explain-"

"Nope."

This was not at all how he had envisioned this conversation. He had imagined more anger, more disappointment, more recrimination. "But I deserted you."

She rolled her eyes with clear disdain—though if disdain could be fond, hers assuredly was. "Crane. You're back now. You gonna freak out on me like that again?"

"I do not hold such intentions, no, but I must make it clear-"

"You gonna fight along with me?"

"Yes of course, that is why I am here, but Miss Mills, you keep interrupting-"

Another smile of pure light. "Now you know how it feels, huh?" Crane winced, thinking how scandalized his dear mother would be to hear of him interrupting a lady. But such thoughts evaporated as the woman before him wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. On instinct, he returned the gesture, as ever startled that someone so small could be so very strong. "You're here now," she said into his coat. "Try not to be a fucking idiot again, okay? No more listening to demons."

Despite the insult, he laughed. It was still difficult for him laugh, after learning about the life of misery his Jeremy had led, but he knew he must re-learn the skill, for Jeremy's sake as much as anyone's. His son had known too little laughter. "I shall do my utmost."

"Good. Now let's go get churched."

The church was full nearly to bursting; families chattered in English and oddly accented Spanish. "Grab some candles," she instructed, and he selected two cheap white tapers with clever paper skirts from a box. When he turned back toward her, she was filling a silver drinking flask with blessed water from the font. "Never hurts," she said with a shrug, tucking it into her jacket pocket.

They squeezed into the end of a hard wooden pew and together with what felt like the entire combined population of Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown, celebrated the holiday. They sang songs which were achingly familiar yet exhilarating new: At some point, "Adeste Fideles" had been anglicized to "O Come All Ye Faithful"; "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" had been transformed into a dull dirge into a soaring testament of joy. He did his best to sing with all his voice, to seek solace in the joined communion of souls, stumbling along with the words projected on massive screens. Beside him, Miss Mills proved to be a capable and enthusiastic mezzosoprano.

They sat so the vicar could tell the story of the Christ child, and Ichabod's thoughts could not but wander to another child born in humble circumstances and trying, desperate times. It was Jeremy who had drawn him back to his destiny beside the lieutenant. Because of his absence, his child had suffered. Because he had not been there to protect him, Jeremy's only friend had been a murderous monster, his only solace in running and escape. Ichabod could not condemn his friend to the same fate. Perhaps he could not avert whatever was coming. But if he was not beside her, he could not even attempt to do so.

At the climax of the service, the electric lights were doused. A single candle was lit from the large advent candles near the altar. As the light was passed from hand to hand, they sang softly a song which he had never heard before, a song of silent nights, holy infants, and quaking shepherds. The gentleman beside him lit his candle; Ichabod shared the flame with Miss Mills, and they both shared a smile.

By unspoken but mutual consent, they traveled to her home. The plainness of the little apartment had been transformed for the holiday: a wreath on the door which was a twin of his own, a small tree bedecked with lights and with a few parcels underneath. On the wall, a familiar sock hung, though this one was emblazoned with "Abbie." Beside it was a tack, as if another sock had once hung there.

"You place them on the wall?" he asked, pulling his own hosiery from the little bag he carried.

"Should be over the mantle, but I don't have a fireplace. Why'd you bring yours?" she asked as she returned from the kitchen with two bottles of beer. Ichabod shuddered, not looking forward to choking down the thin and vile swill. But he would, and without complaint. Not tonight.

"I was unsure of the exact function of the sock. I did not know if perhaps it was worn this night, or if it had some other use or meaning."

"Sure it does. Santa puts presents in it. Here." She traded his stocking for a bottle and pinned it in the empty spot.

"Whose sock hung there before?" he asked quietly. He noticed that there were no folded bedclothes on the couch.

"Jenny's. But she hasn't really been here much. Or at all. Don't tell anyone what a bad conservator I am."

"I do wish she were here. This is a night when you should be with family." They both seated themselves on the couch, their knees quite close together. He knew he should move, pull away and give her an appropriate distance, but...

When he had returned from the hellish land beyond the mirror, Miss Mills had raced to his side and taken his hand. He had replayed that moment again and again during his sequestration in the cabin. Even in that instant of intense fear, he had felt...something. Something which was not at all proper for a man who had just sworn to rescue his beloved wife (and mother of his child). Katrina _was _beloved, but much was changing. He wondered how many other half-truths and omissions she had made. And Miss Mills was simply...

Simply not his wife, he concluded.

"Hey, I'm just glad I didn't have to work tonight. Any family at all is a bonus." She drank deeply. "So did you guys open presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? Everybody does it differently."

"Gifts were not terribly important," he said. "It was more about parties and pageantry. A great deal of dancing; an obscene amount of eating. Mummery, pantomimes, music...even during Valley Forge, we found ways to make music." Unfortunately, some of their best players had lost fingers to frostbite, but they had found a way to create a small patch of joy in the unremitting cold. "But I understand gifts are essential today, and to that end, I have a small item." He paused as he reached into his sack. "A trifle, really, you understand."

"You didn't need to do that, but thank you." She placed her beer on a small table, and he produced a small bundle, about the size of her hand, wrapped clumsily in a scrap of fabric.

"Dish towel wrapping paper. That's new," she said as she untied the twine which held it closed. Inside was a small and admittedly clumsy carving. She slid her fingers across the smooth planes of the wood. "Did you make this?"

"Yes, and I do apologize for its lack of artistic merit. But for reasons I cannot explain, it reminded me of you." During his long, lonely vigil in the cabin, he had found his eyes unable to focus on another word or cry another tear for all that was lost. So he had found a hunk of basswood among his kindling, and his hands had created this without a great deal of input from his mind. He was no artist, but it did look passably like a lioness rampant, with sleek lines and a ferocious, though sly, snarl.

"It's awesome," she said, with apparent feeling. "I love it."

"It's not much," he demurred, though he could not keep his smile at bay.

"You kidding? You made me something. I had to buy your Christmas present." She carefully set the lioness aside and reached under the tree. She selected a parcel wrapped in shiny silver paper emblazoned with snowflakes. The paper slipped oddly between his fingers as he prised it open. Inside was a book.

"_Washington: A Life_," he read aloud. The general was astride a white horse on the cover, looking distinctly older and more drawn than Crane remembered him. But the painting captured his magnetism, the manner that was at once imperious and soldierly. Unable to contain his excitement, Ichabod slid the book open, savoring the familiar scent of the paper. "This is quite remarkable."

"There are about a billion biographies, but Amazon said this was the best. I hope you like it." She was holding her lioness again, her nose almost pressed against its carved one.

Ichabod closed the book, a sudden wave of concern washing over him. "Before I read this—tell me, did Washington...have a Sally Hemings?"

She just laughed.

He spent the night, curled on her sofa in the faint glow of the Christmas lights. The night was as silent as the carol had suggested, and while the sofa was perhaps too short to make his sleep heavenly, Ichabod was glad to be where he belonged once more.

* * *

_Merry Christmas, blessed Solstice, happy (late) __Hanukkah, or simply enjoy a nice, quiet December 25. :)_


	12. Auld Acquaintance

_Hey! Hope you all had a splendid holiday. Along with two friends, I participated in a Holiday Smutacular, so you'll want to check out my Sleepy Hollow AU fic "Au Naturel," JWAB's moving and sexy Ichabbie "Point of No Return" and latbfan's fluffy and fun Arrow fic, "All I Want for Christmas." But now, in the embers of the year, we must turn our attention to the future._

* * *

The station hummed with purposeful energy. It wasn't busy now, but in a few short hours, this place would be nuts. But even with the few scurrying cops and the handful of shamefaced perps in handcuffs, Abbie couldn't escape the whispers and stares.

She was used to the attention, though the whispers had changed recently. They used to be, "Isn't that the girl with the crazy sister?" Now, they had morphed into, "Isn't that the cop with the crazy English dude as a partner? And did you hear her crazy sister is out of the nut house?"

Abbie dealt with the attention in the same way, no matter what they said: eyes straight ahead, don't-fuck-with-me walk. It had taken her a while to get the walk down, but it was critical. If you just avoided eye contact, they thought you had something to feel guilty about. But if you walked with your back straight and your steps long and steady, they knew better than to keep messing with you.

Of course, the effect was pretty much ruined with Crane trotting at her heels like a giant puppy. Even if he'd been a modern guy, he still would have attracted attention by being giant and English and insisting on making friends with everyone. Add in the Medieval Times getup and his babbling about-

"New Year's Eve sounds rather like fun," he said, making no attempt to keep his voice low and pretty much proving her point. "If we commemorated the date at all, we celebrated it as the Feast of the Circumcision, which always seemed like a very painful sort of holiday. But now, I'm told there is dancing, champagne, some sort of giant sphere being smashed in New York-"

"It's just dropped, not smashed," Abbie corrected. She dropped the pile of reports on her desk. "And did you really celebrate baby Jesus getting his tip nipped?"

"'Celebrate' may be a strong word, but yes." He shuddered. "Barbaric practice, with no scientific basis."

Abbie couldn't help it: she glanced down at his pants. "So you weren't..." She made a scissors with her fingers.

"Good Lord, no. Is it common practice now, even amongst Christians?"

Abbie just grinned and sank into her chair. She picked up the first report. Morales' handwriting was absolute chicken scratch; she wasn't sure if this lady was DUI or DOA. "But if you want to go _actually _celebrate New Year's, you don't gotta stay with me. Go down to the bar and ring in 2014 new millennium-style."

Since the woman in Morales' report had been booked into lockup and not the morgue, Abbie was gonna go with DUI. She made a note in the margin and reached for another file. The phones wouldn't really start to ring with reports of drunk people doing dumb things until closer to midnight, so it was the perfect time to get caught up the paperwork she'd been ignoring for weeks.

"I could take no pleasure in celebrating while I knew you toiled here. But you do not seem to long for the celebrations at all." He folded himself into Ramirez' empty chair opposite her, thumbing through a copy of _Brave New World_ he must have found in the cabin.

"Not a fan of New Year's."

"But why? You are so fond of Christmas, and the themes are similar: renewal, new beginnings, hope and light in the darkest of times."

Maybe it was because she'd never gotten a new beginning. The calendar year changed, but she was still Abbie Mills, the kid from the foster system with the crazy sister. Just came with the territory of living in a small town your whole life. Quantico was supposed to be her personal new year, but, well, it hadn't happened. Her life had changed a lot since then. In some ways, it was way better; she had a mission now, and a best friend. But she'd also lost Corbin and was also responsible for the fate of the world, so life's full of trade offs.

But no one outside their little band of misfit toys knew about all those changes. To them, she was the same girl who'd stumbled out of the woods all those years ago. And she knew she shouldn't let it bother her, and most days it didn't. Except on New Year's.

Abbie didn't tell him all that. She didn't think he would get it; he'd tell her that of course she was so much more and everyone saw her for who she really was. He believed that. But for once, Crane was wrong. So she shrugged. "It's just another day. Some random guy decided hundreds of years ago that for some reason, January 1 is the day we all start over. But why not April 16 or July 4? Makes just as much sense."

"July the Fourth is quite taken, if you please," Crane said. "Though if you wish to consider it in that light, all holidays are artificial constructs created for the sake of convenience. That does not mean they are not still critical milestones of human life."

"You're getting way too deep for me. All I know is, it's not my favorite holiday. Mostly drunk people making promises they're never gonna keep." Seriously, Bob Joosten got picked up for public urination again? Third time this year. She initialed the report with a sigh.

"Ah, yes. New year's resolutions. I do rather like the idea of setting some worthy personal goal to achieve." He smacked the paperback book against his palm thoughtfully. "What sorts of things do people resolve to do?"

"Lose weight, mostly."

He snorted. "Certainly neither of us require such a resolution; running from demons is sufficient exertion to keep anyone lean."

She shrugged, and he fell quiet, propping his feet on Ramirez's desk. She sneaked a glance at him; he was just sitting there, staring into space, lightly ruffling the pages of his book. He did that sometimes, went someplace she couldn't follow. She didn't know if it was the past or the future or just somewhere deep inside his big old brain. He always came back, though, so she let him be and got busy on her paperwork.

This time, he was gone for a while. It was almost ten when he said, out of nowhere,"Perhaps my resolution shall be to learn to steer a car."

Well, she hadn't been expecting that one. "You wanna learn to drive? I thought you'd bust out that you wanted to-" _To rescue Katrina, _she just managed to avoid saying out loud. But he'd been kinda squirrely whenever she'd mentioned his wife lately, so she stayed out of that minefield. "-learn to speak ancient Egyptian or something," she salvaged.

"Nonsense, the keys to the ancient Egyptian language have been lost to us."

"They found them again." His eyes lit up, and he whipped his feet down from the desk, leaning toward her. "Found this rock that had translations in hieroglyphs and Greek and...something else. Anyway, you could learn it."

"How marvelous! I have so longed to know more of the pyramids," he said, toying with his ring. "But learning languages is a simple matter-"

"For you."

"-and while piloting a car would be more of a challenge, I am an imminently capable rider. If I can control several hundred pounds of horseflesh with a mind of its own, I see no reason I should not be able to master the..." He made a vague circular gesture in the air with one hand, reaching for an invisible gearshift with the other.

"Oh yeah, you'll be ready for the Indy 500 in no time."

Before Crane could ask her to explain the reference, the desk sergeant's voice crackled over her phone intercom. "Mills, just got a report of a 17 on Valley Street with property damage. Can you and the consultant handle it?"

"We're on it." She grabbed her coat. "Hit and run, Crane. I'm driving."

"Likely a wise decision."

It was a waste of a trip; someone had dented a telephone pole and probably fucked up their car pretty bad. She'd check with repair shops in the morning. After grabbing a few photographs and paint chips, they were headed back to the station.

As usual, Crane was messing with the radio, jumping from one station to the next. Spanish music blared one minute; then some preacher saying something about the end of the world (he didn't know the half of it). But Crane stopped when he hit on a familiar song.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?" A woman sang sadly. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?"

"I know this. It was a poem, and the words...the words were similar, but different," Crane said. He listened, staring intently at the radio. When the new verse began, he sang over the lyrics, softly. "Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon? The flames of love extinguished, and fully past and gone. Is thy sweet heart now grown so cold, that loving breast of thine, that thou canst never once reflect on old lang syne?

The song ended, and Abbie punched the radio off. "Didn't think that song could get any more depressing, but here we are."

"I worry. I worry that I should miss her more than I do," he said, eyes still fixed on the radio. "All this talk of driving cars or learning Egyptian, it only distracts from the fact that I should be fighting to free her with every moment I breathe."

"You liked New Year's five minutes ago. Don't let that stupid old song get you down; everyone hates it anyway. I don't even know what auld lang syne means."

"It means-"

"Don't care, either." The steering wheel creaked under her hands. "Look, she knows you're trying, Crane. She wouldn't want you to make yourself crazy freeing her." Well, probably. Abbie didn't actually know Katrina that well. "How's this for a new year's resolution: we're gonna do our best. Our best to stay alive, save the world, free her, learn to drive. Whatever. As long as we don't give up, we're gonna be okay next year."

His smile was ghostly, but it was there. "I thought you did not care for resolutions."

"Don't. But maybe this year it'll be different."

"Perhaps." He sounded like maybe he believed it.

She didn't. This was going to be another year—another six, if the prophecy was right—trapped in this same dead-end town with more and more baggage piling up around her. If they were lucky, they'd survive. But they had to keep fighting. Even if she was trapped and he was dealing with some serious shit, they owed it to the world—and to each other—to try. If that meant she had to come up with some bullshit resolutions to keep him from getting depressed and locking himself up in the cabin again, then that's what she'd do.

"To the year of our lord two thousand and fourteen," Crane said, hoisting an imaginary toast.

"And many more."

* * *

_Ichabod quotes from the 1711 poem "Old Long Syne" by James Watson, which Robert Burns adapted, in part, to create the version we know today. The lyrics quoted here are taken and modified slightly from Wikipedia. Happy New Year, Sleepyheads. _


	13. Gunpowder

_Hey guys! I dunno about you, but I've been trapped in my house for three days with this polar vortex thing that's sweeping America (SO MUCH SNOW!), so while I climbed the walls, I decided to check in and see how Abbie and Ichabod are dealing with this weather. Also, I nominate a Polar Vortex to be a demon in season 2. ;) Anyway, wherever you are, stay warm and safe. _

* * *

_I never should have let her go out there alone, _Ichabod excoriated himself. He immediately recognized the folly of his logic—no one _let _that woman do anything; she did as she willed. And besides, the lieutenant was eminently capable, clever, and both well-armed and well-dressed. But with temperatures quite so frigid, he could not but wish she were sitting safe and sound in her rooms.

The wind yowled against the eaves, and the cabin shuddered in the face of its ferocity. Ichabod seized the fire iron and stoked the flames, carefully shifting the wood until it burned just so. It was a ridiculous luxury; he was quite sufficiently warm to sustain life. Yet after his long, long winter in Valley Forge, he had grown to despise the cold. So tonight, at least, he would let the fire blaze and soak into his bones.

Yet he could not sit restively and enjoy the flames. Oh, he would sit now and again, pretending to read _A People's History of the United States _(engrossing yet baffling), but then he would leap to his feet, pace the room, rearrange the logs yet again. Mostly, however, he checked his telephone.

Before she had gone out, he had extracted a promise from her to contact him the instant she arrived home. In truth of fact, he had asked rather insistently to be allowed to accompany her on her shift, but she was firm. "I'm gonna need the room in the vehicle, Crane. Night like this, there might be fires, there're gonna be accidents, I might have to transport people to a warming center. Besides, you don't wanna be out in that."

As he reached for his telephone to ensure that he had not accidentally silenced the thing—again-there was a jolt at the door. In a flash, the fire iron was in his hand. The town had been quiet since they had put down a malodorous mountain troll the week before, but there were always more dangers awaiting them. He raised the poker high.

"Do not make me take my gloves off to unlock this stupid door, _Crane_," a familiar voice called over the wind.

He scrambled to open the elaborate series of locks and admitted the lieutenant. She seemed to have doubled in volume since last he saw her, so enrobed in coats and scarves was she. As soon as she slipped inside, he fastened the locks, replaced the fire iron, and turned his feet to the kitchen.

"Thanks. I think my eyes about froze shut out there," she huffed. "Sorry for barging in, but it was another fifteen minutes home and my heater was not living up to its damn name, and when I saw your light was still on..." She paused, cocking her head to the side. "Were you going to take me on with a fire poker?"

"Yes. Now go warm yourself."

"I gave you a gun."

"This was nearer to hand." The tea was still passably hot, and there was enough for two. He refilled the kettle, careful to leave the tap running a trickle as Miss Mills had instructed him, and carried the mugs to the fireside.

She had already disentangled herself from most of her winter vestments, odd things made of fabrics which had not existed in his time. When she realized he had offered her tea and not coffee, she wrinkled her nose.

"None of that, now. Tea is far more warming and comforting than coffee." He pressed the cup into her hands.

"It just tastes like water with grass clippings in it," she grumbled. "At least you can Irish coffee up a little."

Ichabod was gratified to see that some cultural linchpins remained constant. "You have never had gunpowder, then?"

"A what now?"

He smiled and picked up his bottle of Barbadian Best Amber. He added several generous splashes to her cup, though he himself abstained. "Gunpowder. Any soldier's best friend." She sniffed the cup warily, then sipped. The puckery face that resulted made him laugh. "It will warm you through all the same."

"There's a reason this thing never caught on outside the military. Yikes." Still, she kept her hands wrapped around the steaming cup, continuing to sneak droughts, each accompanied by that same puckery face in miniature. "And thanks, for this."

He waved the thanks away. It was, in the most literal sense, the very least he could do for her. He started to reclaim his seat and his own tea when he saw she was still wearing her big black boots. "You must remove those at once."

"Let the rest of me thaw out first." She closed her eyes. "It was a long night. People are _dumb _in the cold."

"Miss Mills, a damp, cold foot is nothing to trifle with." He scrunched his own toes—or what was left of them, rather—within his boots. He rarely missed the first joint of the two largest toes on his right foot, and his balance had recovered after a short adjustment. Compared to the losses his comrades at Valley Forge suffered, it was nothing. He was merely fortunate he had located a camp surgeon before the frostbite had spread.

Despite his admonition, she made no move to remove her shoes. She just sighed quietly. "One minute. Just give me one minute. Then I'll take care of it."

He felt the right ass. Here he had sat, snug and warm, while she had risked her life for strangers. It was one thing to fight to protect others; it was quite enough to suffer biting cold for long hours without the thrill of battle to sustain you. Yet she did it all without complaint. All she wanted was to sit by the fire, and he badgered her.

So, for once, he did the wisest thing of all. He closed his mouth and gave her her silence. But he knelt at her feet and began unlacing one heavy boot.

That got her eyes open. "The hell you doin'?"

He had intended to be flip with her, to inform her that if she would not perform the task herself, he would do it for her. But looking up at her, her cheeks chapped raw from the wind, those words died away. "Let me do this one small, insignificant thing for you. Please."

She gave him the oddest look, as if he had begun speaking in Middle English once more. "You do a lot. You know that, right?"

"You needn't reassure me; this isn't about that." Crane knew that he had his role in all of this, and most days he did an admirable enough job of it. But in addition to her duties as a witness and warrior, she had to play nursemaid to him, to say nothing of all she had done for Miss Jenny. He could never repay her, but perhaps he could at least give her a moment's peace.

After a length of silence which Ichabod found quite uncomfortable, she nodded.

Removing her shoes was oddly intimate, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was his kneeling position. Perhaps it was that she hadn't closed her eyes again, and watched him with puzzlement. Or perhaps it was that the only pair of bare feet he'd been much acquainted with had been Katrina's. Crane's cheeks colored at the thought.

"Tell me, Lieutenant, what made the good people of Westchester County so very 'dumb' this night?" He braced himself, pulling one boot off. Then the other. He lay them by the fire to dry.

"Some were dumb, some just sad. Guy who ran out of beer and tried to walk three miles to the liquor store in -10 degree weather? Dumb. Zero sympathy for him. But we had a couple carbon monoxide runs tonight. That's a kind of gas. It comes from fire, basically. Anyway, one mom with three little kids didn't have enough money to fix their furnace, so she set up a charcoal grill in their living room to keep warm."

He had heard of the illness before. "Did they live?"

"Yeah, but now they've got all kinds of medical bills they'll never be able to pay. I'll probably see them again at some point."

"But for tonight, they're safe." He peeled layers of socks away, startled at how thin they were, yet how dry her foot was. A modern miracle, indeed.

"I guess. And that tickles." She squirmed as he removed the last sock. "You didn't have to do that"

He rose. "You needn't have given that woman extra money from your wallet, either."

She smiled wryly, but did not dispute his words. "Yeah, well. Thanks. For that, and for the gunpowder."

"Shall we reload?" He extended the bottle once more.

She fell asleep before the fire sometime later, wrapped in a flannel blanket which had belonged to the sheriff. He considered moving her to the bed chamber, but decided she would be warmer here, by the fire. He covered her in another blanket nd kept vigil all night, ensuring the flames never burned low.


	14. Eighteen

_Thanks to my dear friend JWAB for inspiring some of my thoughts on this chapter. She is like candy for my brain. If you haven't read her Sleepy Hollow fics yet, you are missing out on fine writing, friends. _

* * *

Abbie fenced like she was playing baseball.

Crane had tried to teach her the classy, fancy way he used a sword (or, in their case, a stick with a hilt), but it didn't work for her. The long sword, almost as tall as she was, slowed her down, made it harder to maneuver. She wound up getting tangled and couldn't get any leverage. So after their second lesson, she'd hacked off a good four inches of her sword with Crane's ax. Rolling his eyes, he'd said it looked like a dirk and she looked like a common seaman.

She didn't care. Now she could get low, minimizing her strike zone. Now she could choke up on the sword to give herself more control and power. Now she could duck and dart and harry him.

Now she _liked _fencing.

"Keep your guard high. Turn to the side, make a smaller target," Crane coached, but his voice was strained. Abbie grinned. She had him on the run. Instead of the big, broad motions he used, Abbie poked him and thwaped him. None of them were kill shots, but if they'd been using steel, he'd've been bleeding pretty badly by now. She prodded him in the ribs; she smacked him across the back. Every now and then he'd land a blow, but she hardly felt them.

"Leftenant, I believe that is enough for the day," he panted after she'd sent him crashing to one knee with a well-timed strike to the back of the thigh.

"I'm just getting' warmed up. C'mon." She bounced on the balls of her feet like a boxer.

Crane cast her a sidelong glance, but brushed the dirt from his pants and saluted her again. She returned the gesture just to humor him, then barreled in once again. _Crack, _sword on sword. _Thwack, _hip. _Thwack, _elbow. "Leftenant," he started, but she ignored him. She was in the zone. _Jab, _ribs. Every movement, every sound of sword on flesh, it all made her feel alive. _Crack, _swords. "If you please, Miss-" _Smack, _belly-

"Yield!" Crane coughed. He dropped his sword and doubled over, clutching his stomach. "Good God, Mills, I yield to you. Are you trying to do Moloch's work for him?"

"Oh come on, don't be mad 'cause I was winning." She swished her arms through the air, trying to stay warm and limber for when they started again. They would start again soon, right?

"I am not angry, but I am severely bruised. Whatever has gotten into you today?" He walked gingerly to a fallen log. Abbie started to give another taunting reply, but she saw him wince as he lowered himself to sit.

"Crane? Shit." She let the sword drop from her hand, moving quickly to his side. "I didn't think I was really hurting you." It had just been a game, like the dozens of other times they'd fenced or hit the shooting range or played Texas Hold 'Em. "What do you need? I'll go get some ice." She spun toward the cabin.

"That is not necessary. The only thing I require from you is an explanation."

Abbie didn't turn back toward him. She raised a hand to her hair, fidgeting with the loose strands from her ponytail. "An explanation for what?"

"Why you fought like a woman poss-" He left out a soft breath of laughter. "A poor choice of words indeed. Why you fought with such verve and vigor. Have I done something to dismay you?"

"I didn't realize I was fighting with verve or vigor. Not even really sure what verve is."

"Admittedly, I am not the finest swordsman in the land, and you are a quick and able student. But usually, you make at least a moderate attempt to blunt your blows. But not today."

She felt him looking at her, eyes burning a goddamn hole in her neck. "I'm sorry, okay? It's been kind of a crazy week, even by our standards. I wasn't thinking as much as I should've. Won't happen again."

"You discovered some unpleasant truths yesterday. It would be logical if it took some time to come to terms with all of them." In some ways, knowing that he was looking at her was more uncomfortable than actually facing him and those clear blue eyes. So she turned, arms crossed hard over her chest.

Nope, she was wrong. It was way worse when he was looking at her, like she was a puzzle to be figured out. But mixed in there with the curiosity was something warm and gentle. It wasn't pity—fuck pity—but it was...understanding?

Abbie cracked open. "Eighteen. That's how many times she was arrested. Eighteen separate times." She'd looked it up late last night, scrolling through the mountain of files on MILLS, JENNIFER in disbelief. Twenty-seven charges total. Everything from shoplifting to trespassing to grand theft auto. Even assault. "She did all of that—hurt _other people—_just to protect me. If Corbin hadn't known and been looking out for her, she'd be in prison for God knows how long."

"And she did it gladly, because she loves you," Crane said.

"How could she love me? I don't know that I would have crossed the road to piss on her if she was on fire at that point, but she went to jail for me. Over and over."

"Piss on her if she were—I shall have to remember that eloquent turn of phrase," he said with obvious amusement. She sideyed him. He cleared his throat. "You and Jenny both wanted the same thing: to keep the other safe. You merely had different ways of achieving that end."

"Yeah, and mine was lying." It had seemed safer. After all, no one believed kids, even when they were telling the truth. No one had believed them when they said foster parents hit them, or when they were only fed every couple days. Those weren't crazy, out-there stories, so why would any grownups believe them about _demons? _Their best chance had been to stay together, and their best chance of doing that had been to lie.

But Jenny insisted on the truth, and they lost each other.

Abbie sank onto the log beside him. "She should've been your other witness. Not me. She's always had the guts to stand up for what she believed in." She studied the ground below her feet, the trampled yellow grass speckled with frost.

"Now are simply indulging in self-pity," he said, but not in a mean way. "When God appeared as the burning bush, He told Moses to refer to the Lord as _eyeh asher eyeh. _Most scholars translate this from the Hebrew as 'I am who I am,' but another possible translation is, 'I am becoming who I am becoming.'" He looked at her expectantly, as if that was supposed to mean something.

Abbie shook her head. "Okay. So what?"

"I have always vastly preferred the second translation, this idea that God Himself is in a constant state of flux and change." Crane touched her shoulder, hesitantly. When she didn't jerk away, he wrapped one long arm around her shoulders. "Perhaps in order for you to become who _you_ are becoming, you needed Miss Jenny to be your shield for a time. And now, you are the witness God, humanity, and your sister need you to be."

Abbie let herself lean against him. He was warm and solid and smelled like sweat and wood smoke, and just for a second, she was able to share her guilt with her partner. After all, Ichabod Crane knew a thing or two about letting down family when they needed you. Even if he was wrong to feel guilty, he got it. And even for that second of shared sympathy, her load was so much lighter. She wondered if his was, too.

Then she straightened, and he withdrew his arm. They scooted apart. "I'm sorry for beating the crap outta you."

"Now that is a vast overstatement of my injuries," Crane argued. "My _crap _is still firmly within me. And now that I have caught my second wind, I believe I shall best you this time." He reached for his sword, then paused, glancing at her uncertainly. "That is, if you're feeling better?"

"I am. You give good pep talk." She stood. "You gonna teach me that balustrade move you were telling me about?"

"I can only assume from your deeply mangled French that you are referring to the _balestra."_

"Yeah, that one. Give me two secs, okay?" She dug into her pocket for her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts.

"beers tonight at sullivan's?" Abbie hesitated. "drinks on me," she added, then pressed send. It wasn't enough; it wasn't ever gonna be enough to repay her sister. But hey, it was a start.


End file.
